


Burn With Me

by dulce_de_leche_go



Series: Blood Sugar Sex Magik [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Master/Slave, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Resurrection, Revenge, Smut, Vengeful Hermione, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 04:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13563084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulce_de_leche_go/pseuds/dulce_de_leche_go
Summary: Dark Volmione Short - Post-War - They all won but somehow, for Hermione, it wasn't at all how it was made out like it was going to be. A slighted woman is a dangerous thing. To slight the brightest witch of the age? Possibly more so.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a one-shot that became a two-shot/short story and was posted on FFnet. The original version of it is still up at the time I'm uploading this but this is a heavily edited and significantly more explicit version of that one. Tripped and fell and made it smut ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Edited with the assistance of **[disillusionist9](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9)**!

Thirty-something and nowhere. That's what she was.

A war heroine.

A wife.

An ex-wife.

A nine to five Ministry worker who was good enough to run for Minister for Magic, have all the appropriately patronizing, supportive campaigns behind her and still "fail to win" the peoples' vote.

 _Why?_ Hermione had asked herself many questions after that but above all, _why?_

The answers she was given were flimsy and hardly believable.

_Too young._

She was hardly the youngest to run for it.

_Inexperienced._

She won the bloody WAR for them.

While Harry was busy being broken and confused by fate, and Ron acted foolhardy and headstrong by blood, she was busy winning-the-bleeding-war.

Who researched the horcruxes? Her.

Who figured out the patterns? She did.

Who figured out how to destroy the damnedable things? This witch.

Inexperienced her arse. And the excuses kept flowing.

_Just too 'unqualified'._

Read: Muggle-born.

They enjoyed the integration of certain aspects of Muggle culture — ahem, divorce — but they weren't okay with one of the very same leading the wizarding world. Right. Fine. Splendid. They wanted the freedom to change and have mixed opinions without the commitment of having to follow through. All of them did.

Purebloods weren't the thing anymore. Halves and Muggle-borns made up so much of the population that they couldn’t be. Yet, there was something about the latter that still set the others on edge. Never outright described as ‘unclean’, per se...just labeled ‘unqualified’.

They want the choice but don’t want to change. Have their pumpkin pasties and eat them, too.

 _Well,_ Hermione thought, _I gave you the choice. And I can take it away._

 

* * *

 

"I shall not be bound as a slave to the likes of you."

"Then you can go back beyond the Veil. Shall I escort you myself? Shall I push you through on my own? But that’s been done, so perhaps something more dramatic. You enjoy dramatics, don't you?"

Hermione turned to face him and clasped a hand around the locket she had repaired and turned into a phylactery with the ashes of his diary. As her fingers clenched around the pendant, she turned her wand hand to him, sending Voldemort’s nude form to his hands and knees before her.

"I will dissolve you, Tom Riddle, cell by cell in the most excruciating way possible. I will send you back. Not burning in the fires of Hell, nor singing songs with the bloody Angels but rotting in that void in between it all. I will unmake you just as easily as I have brought you to stand again before me!"

The man — less snake than man this time around thanks to her deft manipulation of spells — growled venomously up at her. "That is NOT my name!"

And she laughed, the sound ringing in the hollow room, and twisted her wand, sending his face to the tiles of the Department of Mysteries with the hiss of her spell. "Your name is whatever I wish it to be!"

Voldemort struggled against her magic. His strength was still returning and he knew, by the feel of it, that he would be at his full power soon enough. Yet, the compulsion of this witch's spell was woven through the threads of his very being as it existed again on this plane. He grit his pointed teeth, growled and spat at her, lashing out as he could, as often as he was able, yet all that resulted was her tinkling laughter.

At last, the press of her power pulled away and he was able to push himself shakily back to his hands and knees. Spitting out a clump of blood, he swiped a pale forearm across his lips and turned gleaming red eyes up to the woman who now knelt with him.

"I've a proposition for you...Tom."

He sneered and let his eyes rove over her deceptively dainty figure. "And I have a choice, _my Lady?"_ He spat the last as distastefully as he could muster.

"Not truly, no. But I rather dislike the idea of owning slaves."

Her hand came out to press lightly on his arm and he tensed at the foreign feel of her soft touch—of any touch. He would have slapped her away but her magic forbade it. Instead, he found himself coaxed upright, her opposite hand sliding up his chest. It was such a wicked thing that touch; it made his brows rise higher with every inch her fingers traveled.

Hermione smirked.

"What then?" he asked, eyes narrowed as she traced up the thick muscle of his neck.

Her fingertips dipped into the dark waves tinted with the hint of gray that had been born to this incarnation of his body.

"A partnership," she said.

Voldemort scoffed and her fingers clenched in his hair, jerking his head back. Her eyes darkened.

"As much of one as we can have. You could be my new beau if you would like. Husband if you prefer. I could use someone that can keep up with me."

"I would kill you,” he said on a harsh breath. “If your witchcraft did not forcibly stay my hand, I would kill you right where you stand."

She laughed again, eyes twinkling with mischief. This close, in this light, he could make out more complexities in their color than he’d noticed during his violent reentry into this world. "See? Already thinking like a married man."

At that, he did crack a smile and in every way it was as wicked as the one she sported. In a flash, his hands darted to her sides, jerking her to him, her clothed hips to his bare ones. Her breath hitched but she did not dissuade him.

"Perhaps..." He allowed himself to drink her in, allowed himself to have more of an...objective look at her.

Sensing a lull in her focus, Voldemort’s touch swept up her body, fingers sliding around her neck as if to crush the wind from those pipes, considering trying before traveling on and offering a languid caress spanning the length of her petite form. His sharpened nails tickled their way down to her hips once more and he relished how she gasped when they finally dug in, how she shivered as though she’d not been handled in such a way in ages...perhaps _ever._

Greedily, he basked in the delight of how much pain he could inflict if it were, perhaps, _not_ pain; not for her.

As always with magic, intention was everything.

He could work with this.

He _would._

"I would ask one question to my Lady."

Hermione cracked open her eyes and smiled a lazy, cat like grin. "Just the one?"

"What brings such a... _powerful_ witch to these dark halls?"

She preened under his assessment and let both of her hands rove over his chest before draping her arms back over his shoulders. Rising onto her knees, she leaned in ever so slowly, close enough to brush her nose over the tip of his.

"Hell hath no fury," she muttered, glancing at his lips that were not the thin pieces of flesh stretched over jagged teeth they’d been on his last resurrection, but softer, fuller pads hiding his devilish maw. "I gave away my childhood for these ungrateful sods and I’m repaid as a second-class citizen. I risked my life time and time again to save the world as we know it from a tyrannical _mad man_."

Those lips she’d been admiring peeled back to flash his terrible smile and his nails bit into the skin of her hips, grinding her into him. Her lashes fluttered and a soft moan escaped her.

"I gave my life for this world and they disrespect my sacrifice. So..." She breathed out a sigh close enough that it tickled over his mouth and cheeks. "I shall take it back."

Eyes darkening, his throat bobbed in excitement before his pointed tongue came out to wet his lips. "You would give it to me, lay it before me—"

She scoffed. "It is not mine to _give._ " Hermione paused to admire his so strange combination of handsome and monstrous features that her spellwork brought about before brushing her lips against his. "This time, however, I will simply... _not_ stand in your way or aid them in their defense." She smirked and breathed out a soft, " _My Lord."_

Voldemort snarled, a different sound than the growls of anger before. He lunged forward to capture her mouth, swallowing down her surprised squeak and tangling a hand in her hair while the other kept her hips rolling in their slow, persistent grind.

In his youth, Tom Riddle had hardly bothered with pleasures of the flesh, not having found the time or need during his climb to power. It hadn’t been until he’d delved deeper, into the darkest magics — ones that spawned from sex and blood — that he’d found the appeal. Such a long time it’d been since he’d tasted that brand of power and this witch possessed all the delights of it—and _more_.

When she gasped at his kiss, he seized the opportunity to taste her more thoroughly, to trail his tongue past the sensitive flesh of her lips and send pleasure filled heat sparking through her limbs. He moved her to her back, pressed her to the cold tile beneath them both until she was sprawled beneath him, all beautiful wickedness, cleverness, and spite.

"Your friends...your family...your peers," he ripped his mouth from hers to mutter while swiftly divesting her of her cumbersome robes. "They would burn you for this."

Hermione lifted her hips to help along his frantic removal of her clothes. Her own hands sliding and palming every inch of his naked pale flesh. Each of her breaths came in shorter pants as he loomed over her.

One of his dangerously taloned hands rose to encircle her neck as firmly as her magic would allow.

"Gone," she said huskily, grasping at his arm. "They left me long ago. All that’s left are the ones that shun me with their polite smiles and tipped caps. They would burn me for bringing back the Dark Lord Voldemort and they can burn _with_ me for all I give a damn!"

Memories of the taboo on his chosen name echoed through him; the ashes of his essence remembered. It sent delighted chills through his new limbs.  He’d been so close—everything he’d desired had been _so_ close. With a witch so clever as to revive him from an abyss and the literal destruction of the pieces of his soul, he could have anything. He would _._

 _After_ he had her.

Poising himself at her entrance, Voldemort sank into her with a single firm thrust, sending her back arching off the tiles and his name tearing from her lips in a wanton cry. He groaned at her heat, so scorching and tight, and froze within her as she adjusted to his thickness. Her body writhed beneath him, still anchored by the hand at her throat while hers scrabbled at his chest and arms and waist, searching for something to anchor her.

Voldemort looked down where they were joined and felt so keenly the velvety warmth around him. His hips rocked of their own accord and he watched the lewd way her body stretched and coveted him, relishing the whimpers leaking from between her teeth that came even with those small movements.

 _“More!”_ she said breathlessly. The urging came from the lips of a maiden but the demand for it from the heightened thrumming of her magic against his skin. It beseeched him to move, to worship, like a goddess seeking exaltation from the very soul she had saved.

And so worship he did.

Releasing her neck, he covered her with his body, stealing her lips with a hungry snarl and fevered kiss. He devoured her every whimper and gasp and moan. He bit and sucked and suckled every stretch of flesh he could reach, all the while his hips snapping to hers in a frantic rhythm. The only thing that mattered was wrenching more and more of those decadent sounds from her throat with each frenzied thrust.

With every pull, her muscles clenched around him and her heady voice cried out: for him, for more— _pleading._

Every cry of his name from her lips left him gasping.

Every sharp drag of her nails down his back made him snarl and thrust harder.

Hermione’s pleasure crested ever higher until her voice pitched and keened.

He felt the trembling in her legs growing more pronounced as they dug into the sides of his waist. As her quivering intensified, so too did the swell of her power in the air between them. Her magic sought out and twined with his, coiling tighter and tighter until all he knew was her intoxicating scent and feel of her and she of him.

All they could hear was the other’s panted breaths.

All they felt was the overwhelming need for release.

All they sought was that next step, that next tier, in their ever mounting pleasure until one perfectly angled thrust of his hips sent Hermione first over that blissful edge.

 _“Tom!”_ she cried, clamping her thighs hard around him, arching her body and rocking into him through her release.

Voldemort’s hips stuttered and jerked at the sudden, forceful clenching of her muscles milking his cock. He felt his own body burning, overheated and overtaken by the crashing waves of her pleasure, now clawing him over the edge with her.

His mind fuzzed with the urgent need to come, Voldemort snarled and lost himself in the sweet strangling sensation of her fluttering, twitching muscles. Redoubling his efforts, he pounded roughly into her, savagely intent on wringing her dry of all the torrid moans and cries she had in her until she was hoarse with the effort.

One, two, _three_ more thrusts was all it took before his body went rigid as he buried himself to the hilt and grunted out his release. A flood of warmth spread through his new body from his fingertips to his toes, both sets curling with the pulsing spasms of pleasure as his bollocks worked to fill this clever, wicked little witch with his seed.

Their breathing was ragged but slowing in the aftermath of it all.

Hermione lifted her head to look down the length of her body, unable to see anything but where his softening length still rested inside her. With a soft groan and a too-pleased smile, she collapsed back, coaxing Voldemort down for another kiss.

He followed her down without resistance, shifting within her but refusing to withdraw just yet. The evidence of their coupling leaked between them with the movement in a not wholly unpleasant way and they _both_ groaned at that. His kisses turned to nips and bites to her lip, her neck, her skin and her smile turned lazy and satisfied with each new bruise he suckled to the surface.

Voldemort devoted his attentions to mapping the course of their conquest on her skin but even then he understood their fate this time around: he would drown in her and she would burn.

But not until the rest of them — _her ‘ungrateful sods’_ — did first.

The thought had him hardening inside her once more and his hips began moving again, encouraged by her soft mewls.

“They will burn,” Voldemort purred the promise into her sweat dampened hair.

They would _all_ burn.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of this accidentally smutty, dark "romance" Volmione!
> 
> Edited with the assistance of **[disillusionist9](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusionist9)**!

* * *

 

"I would kill you if I could."

Hermione smiled and stretched out more comfortably on her bed – on _their_ bed – running her hands up over his arms. "You say that every time."

Voldemort returned her smile with a sharpened one of his own and she chuckled as she did each time she saw it. His Lady was so amused that she'd somehow concocted a slightly more handsome version of his first horrific visage - _so_ amused.

She’d explained it away as a side effect of his soul essence from the recovered horcruxes she used to revive him. While all the pieces of his soul anchored to this world had their tethers cut, most of the objects themselves remained. She’d focused on the oldest ones: his diary, his ring, that stupid cup. Using those, a solution based in phoenix tears, and nothing less than genius, she’d brought him back and created this body.

Hermione insisted she’d wanted his intelligence and magical prowess to be the dominant notes, not his madness and nothing more. He suspected that his appearance of something between monster and man was far less of a coincidence than she made it out to be, however. Truth be told, he was not dismayed over the... _capabilities_ present in this form that his other had so sorely lacked.

"And every time I mean it more and more." He traced the tip of the wand over one of her pert nipples, reveling in the way she wriggled under the touch.

He couldn't break her.

He couldn't snap her delicate little spine no matter how much he might long to do so.

He couldn't punish her for bringing him back and entrapping him as she'd managed to do.

All he could do was her bidding…

…except here, in their quarters; in their bed.

Here, he could take her.

Here, he could have her in whatever way he desired.

Here, he _did_ take her.

And Merlin how his Lady luxuriated in it.

Replacing his wand with his lips, they traveled the same path it left and she shifted again, wriggling, writhing, arching into his touches. He'd learned her, every bit of her, and he would perhaps be lying if he were to say that he didn't enjoy it as well.

"I would pick you apart. I would torture you until you screamed… I would make it slow for you," he hissed against her neck. "So very slow."

Hermione turned her head into her pillows, exhaling a moan when his teeth traveled to tug at the diamond set into the single piercing on her lobe – the very diamond he'd extracted for her from the previous Minister's vaults after setting her on the proverbial throne. A Queen should be properly ornamented, after all.

“I think you'd miss me," she purred.

"Mmm…" Voldemort hummed, drawing her legs up around either side of his bare hips. He rubbed himself against the inside of her thighs, first one, then the other, smirking at the remnants of their coupling not even an hour before. "I think you give yourself too much credit."

She laughed, a sound that continued to draw him in

It was sane, _far_ too sane, for a woman that’d resurrected a Dark Lord to subjugate their people because she was insulted. But there it was.

Color him intrigued.

"Well _someone_ has to," Hermione mumbled and wove her fingers through his hair to pull him back to a favored spot on her neck. "Merlin knows _you_ won't."

He chuckled against her skin and began a torturous line of nips and bites. "If it is your command…" he felt the words spill forth from his lips and the bile that always accompanied it touched the back of his tongue.

Hermione shook her head. "No commands."

He shifted his softly glowing red gaze up from the spot at her collarbone to meet her dark eyes. That too sane mirth that was always present had evaporated. In its place was a somber expression as her fingers carded through his hair and her eyes took in the lines and shape of his face as if committing it to memory. They’d spent many years at each other’s sides by now and while Voldemort had grown used to her touch, these expressions, these gentle emotions—these were still new.

“Not here. _Never_ here,” she said quietly.

Voldemort allowed himself a small, indulgent grin.

"You've grown sentimental." He pressed a kiss to her chest, ran his nails over her thighs again with the slightest touch of fondness that he'd reserved for so very few in his first lives. "Perhaps it is _you_ that would miss _me._ "

She huffed and rolled her eyes, pushing him off of her with a stiff arm. Hermione turned away from him, gave him her back and looked out the window at the world which she now owned.

"You ruin everything."

Voldemort chuckled at the grouchy mutter of her words and curled himself all along the length of her backside, slipping one of his legs between both of hers with minimal resistance and only _one_ petulant noise.

"And is that not precisely what you called me back to do?" His lips were pressed again to her ear as he spoke and proceeded to dot kisses over the sensitive spot behind it all along her hairline.

Her shoulder moved in a dramatic shrug and it only made him laugh once more.

His arm draped over her waist, palm sliding over her belly in a soothing set of circles before winding its way down and between her thighs to find her center. He stroked her until that same dramatic shoulder started to sag and her breaths turned into huffs and pants and the softest of moans.

"I would kill you if I could," he rasped and groaned when she pushed her rear against him at his words. His hips jerked forward in response and her top leg looped over his. His breath stuttered out in a shaky exhale when she angled her hips to catch on the tip of him and he flattened his palm to push her the rest of the way down his length.

" _Tom!"_

That most hated name was the closest he'd ever reach to Heaven when it fell from her lips in such a way. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, the soft curls of her hair holding the scent of her magic, her ambition, her tenacity...her, her, _her_...

His grip tightened on her and his words were little more than a husky growl. "I would kill you if I could," he repeated in a rumbled tone, "but your magic is no longer what stills my hand."

 

* * *

 

The world did burn.

It burned practically every day.

Such was the way of things when someone like him was released into it for that very purpose; he was simply a match held too close to dry kindling.

She rolled his locket around in her palm, the palm that should have been aged and wrinkled by now, but remained youthful and taut and _not._ Not immortal, as she didn't quite care for splitting her soul, but other things…other equally dark things that kept her body frozen in time so she could enjoy her rule to its fullest potential.

With a great, shuddering sigh, she took his hand and dropped the thing into his cupped fingers. The long golden chain coiled into a pile in his palm with a soft whisper.

"You can kill me now," she said simply.

He stared hard at the locket heavy in his palm. He'd felt the magic release him, somehow. She'd pulled those threads, those bonds, from his form and tucked it all away into this little pendant instead; isolated it and unmade the contract without unmaking him.

Because she was brilliant.

Because she wasn't truly the monster that people called her—that was _his_ role, also his duty, his absolute pleasure, to flay those that spouted off too loudly about his Lady.

Because the distaste of enslaving a devil that she’d come to care for had become too great for her to continue to bear.

Intriguing. She was always – had always been – so very intriguing.

The hand not gripping the locket shot out to her neck, clamping around her throat more firmly than the magic had ever allowed before.

Hermione gasped, but didn't defend herself, didn't move away. Her lids fluttered at the tightening, squeezing grip, but she just swallowed and steadied herself with hands gripping his arm as the oxygen was steadily barred from entering her lungs.

He watched her eyes start to water and turn glassy.

Her mouth came open in another reflexive gasp for air.

But she didn't beg.

She never begged.

 _That was a lie, she did, but only when they_ —

Voldemort’s hand released her abruptly and she stumbled, coughing and hacking as her body shuddered, trying to pull in great gulps of air out of instinct. Hermione wobbled on her feet, teetering and nearly falling but he scooped her into his arms and brought her to their bed.

He deposited her onto the expensive satin sheets, waiting until she'd stopped her wheezing and had her head about her again before he climbed in beside her. He looped his locket around his neck and propped himself on an elbow so he could see her pensive expression staring back at him. When he reached for her again, she didn't flinch, and he smiled, the sight of those wicked edges of ivory coaxing her own smile to the surface.

"I've not been able to kill you for some time now," he admitted lowly, moving over her, his locket swinging between them to occasionally brush against her robes.

She tugged her lip between her teeth and reached for his face, her fingers tracing over the harsh angles of his cheeks and chin. Hermione gasped and sighed at the touch that was now unwrapping her from her formal attire like a present; stroking, touching, feeling every inch of her body, as it was his – had been his – for so long.

Once she was bared to him, he retraced his steps, beginning at her hips where the pendulum-like swing of his locket stopped and rested along her slit. Her breath hitched sharply at the press of it, the magic of his bound soul pulsing and massaging her body and her very essence, sending her toes curling into the sheets in languid pleasure.

 _“Tom_ …” Hermione moaned for him and his lip curled from his teeth in a snarl of desire.

Voldemort lowered his mouth to her hip, nipping and kissing and _burning_ a path up her belly, to her ribs, her breasts, her neck—all the way up and up and up to her ear where he licked a wet line over the shell of it with that devil's tongue and she whimpered.

" _Please_ —" she pleaded when he nestled himself between her legs, teasing her with the heat of his cock beneath his robes. She reached between them, tugging at his clothing with a composure that was rapidly fading, her breaths coming closer together the more hastily her hands worked to disrobe him. _“I need you—Tom, please!”_

This was his favorite kind of _'please'._

Voldemort growled, barely suppressing a shudder when she succeeded in freeing his length. He did shudder when she wrapped her small hands around him and guided him to her entrance. The sudden slick heat of her arousal coated his tip and he collapsed to his forearms above her, pressing his mouth to her neck and edging his cock inside her. Slowly - torturously slow - he made love to her. Teasing and shallow at first, he drew out the moment until she was panting and mewling and properly begging and as if tipped over the edge, he drove into her.

Burying his face into her mane of curls, he inhaled deeply of her scent, reaching between them to rub and massage her clit alongside the steadily pumping rhythm of his hips to the music of her moans crying out her pleasure at being so perfectly full.

Voldemort turned to her cheek and murmured against her skin, “In the morning...you will come with me and we shall find a way that is more accommodating to your preferences so no one _else_ can kill you either.” He nipped along her jaw with those razor sharp teeth, all the way to her favored spot on her neck where he bit her in earnest and let her blood trickle from the wound. Her glorious moans filled his ears and the rolling of her hips picked up, urging him deeper, faster— _more_.

“I’m afraid I’ve become _sentimental_ as well,” he rasped.

And her moan broke off into a shortened, huffed version of that too sane laugh.

He’d set the world aflame for her and would not have her consumed by it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on the social medias! o_o
> 
>  **Twitter:** @lechegomyeggo  
>  **Tumblr:** dulce-de-leche-go


End file.
